Christmas Cheer
by alp crim
Summary: Blaise Zabini prides himself on his sanity. What’s to happen when he finds Hermione Granger, of all people, invading the solitude of his dreams?
1. Unfeasible

  
**Title:** Christmas Cheer.   
**Author:** W C. 

**Summary:** Blaise Zabini prides himself on his sanity; what's to happen when he finds Hermione Granger, of all people, invading the solitude of his dreams? 

**Pairing:** Blaise / Hermione.   
**Rating:** M. 

**Genre:** Romance / Drama.   
**WARNINGS:** Language, minute violence and oodles of smut. And whatever else you find that requires a warning.   
**Note:** Recommend to your friends if you like. Constructive criticism is welcome. 

"Come off it, Zabini." Draco Malfoy lounged in the chair he'd immediately claimed as his during his first year at Hogwarts, trademark smirk in place. "It's just the Yule Ball."

Blaise had been acquainted with Malfoy ever since childhood and, as dreadful as it sounded, the blonde was actually near tolerable; mornings excluded, that is. "You're a Head, you bloody twit," Blaise muttered, glaring. "Did you have to stipulate dates?"

Draco shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time that might've ruffled a few prudish hermits," he said, giving Blaise a pointed look. "Spread the Christmas cheer, you know, so nobody's having a hellish time."

"Are you honestly broadcasting that bullshit?"

Draco grinned complacently. "Not at all, but it sounded good, didn't it? Even Granger thought so."

"Right," he said, absentmindedly surveying the Slytherin common room. It was two weeks to Christmas, and Salazar Slytherin would be reeling in his grave if he saw the decorative trees and fake snow his ambitious, cunning and masterminded House had already put up. In fact, he had the feeling that the wreath somebody — Pansy, if he had to guess — had stuck on the portrait hole was the reason Snape kept away.

He had to admit, lacking of holiday merriment or not, that the common room looked better when festooned; and it was considerably warmer.

"So, Zabini, who do you plan on taking?" Blaise disregarded the question as he sipped his morning coffee, the impish gleam in Malfoy's eye not escaping him. He didn't put it past the insufferable pomp to set him up, friend or not. If it served for Malfoy's entertainment, anything was possible. Plus, he still didn't know.

"You have to take somebody."

Insufferable pomp.

"I know."

"Do you?" Draco looked skeptical. "Who?"

"Who are _you_ going with?" There was always a last resort when one was disinclined to answer one of Malfoy's copious queries: have him talk about himself. It was an irksome alternate, but it got the job done.

"Millicent."

Blaise sputtered and choked, his drink splashing hotly onto his hand and down the front of his dark blue bathrobe. Millicent Bulstrode was his friend — a good friend at that — but she wasn't the smallest person on earth, nor the prettiest … and simply not Draco's type. Draco laughed boisterously, a nefarious grin on his face. "Merlin, Blaise, you're so damn easy."

"Not what your mother said." Blaise glanced down at his ruined bathrobe, irritated.

"Don't talk about my mother. Anyway, I'm taking Pansy. It's expected."

"Since when do you feel the need to meet other people's expectations?"

Draco shrugged in response. "She's one of the few I can stand," he replied.

Pansy Parkinson wasn't altogether too bad to be around if you wrote off the show she put on for tradition's sake. Slytherins were always biting, sharp and sarcastic; if they weren't at first, they learned quickly. Draco and Pansy weren't dating, but that wasn't to say that they hadn't tried. She'd been quite infatuated with him for a good three or four years — what she saw in him, nobody knew — but now, they were nothing more than good friends. In fact, he had a notion that Pansy had a soft spot for Potter.

"Right." He got up and headed for the boys' dormitory, leaving Malfoy to his own devices. Then again, that probably wasn't the smartest thing to do, but he needed a shower before he went down to breakfast. It didn't really matter that his bathrobe was stained; the house elves were marvelous when it came to laundry. Tossing the robe onto the foot of his four-poster bed and grabbing a towel, he made his way to the bathroom, glad that the rest of his fellow students were still snoring away. That way, he had the showers to himself.

Blaise deposited the towel on a rack near a shower and turned the knob with the 'H', quickly stripping down and stepping in. There was only one thing better than a hot, steaming morning shower to wake him up, and that was a cup of hot, steaming coffee. Fiddling with the knobs a little more so that the water wouldn't scald his skin, he then allowed himself to mull over the questions Malfoy had posed.

Who _would_ he take to the Yule Ball? Going by himself was out of the question; when he'd asked Malfoy what kept the students from simply arriving without a date, the blonde had smiled maliciously and stated, "You don't want to know." And he took Malfoy at his word — most of the time. Once he thought about it, the consequences of turning up dateless couldn't be too severe; Malfoy would've had to coerce Granger into agreement, and the bushy-haired witch was a righteous spitfire, saintly to the infinite degree.

So, risk asking an annoying witch to the Ball that prattled on meaninglessly throughout the whole night, or risk Malfoy and Granger's wrath? Blaise twisted the knobs to shut off the endless stream of water and reached for his towel, patting himself down and draping it loosely around his waist. They were all male, so propriety wasn't exactly upheld … although some were straighter than others. With that thought, he fastened the towel more securely round before moving in front of a mirror to brush his teeth.

When he was dressed in clean robes, he tilted his head forward, scrutinizing his still-damp hair. Deciding to leave it as is, he combed his fingers through it a little to make sure it didn't stick straight up and left for breakfast. He was dropping his bag off in the Slytherin common room when Millicent caught up with him.

"Going down to breakfast?" She was balancing on one foot and pulling a shoe onto the other. He nodded, and she grinned, falling in step beside him. "Are you staying here over holidays?"

"Regrettably. You?"

"I'm going to visit some uncle or the other I've never heard of. I thought you were supposed to go to Italy."

"Change of plans. My parents are going elsewhere on business ventures."

They ascended the stairs that led out of the dungeon, and Blaise was tremendously looking forward to another cup of coffee. The only reason he'd already had his first cup was because last night, he'd persuaded Malfoy's old house elf to drop it off in the morning as a Christmas favor.

There were rumors flying around about Granger charming a Muggle coffeepot to work within Hogwarts's walls, but then, he'd also heard that Snape secretly fancied baby koalas and pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Supposedly, he was furtively attempting to change Slytherin's emblem to a silver koala. The man would have an epileptic fit if he knew.

Blaise sat down at his usual spot, making a note to thank Dobby when a cup of coffee sprang up in front of him. Millicent took the seat beside him as six plates clattered onto the table, soon accompanied by an array of jars. Between the two of them lay platefuls of bacon, eggs, sausages, ham, toast and butter; the jars were filled with diverse flavors of jelly.

"They really overdo it, don't they," Millicent commented, slathering an especially thick layer of butter onto her toast. "It's their job," he said, taking a long drought of his coffee. Brew of the gods, it was.

Millicent watched him, toast in hand. "You're addicted, you know."

"What?" In reality, he knew what she was talking about. He _was_ addicted to coffee, but it wasn't something he could help. He swore up and down that it was genetic; every family member he knew of partook in the imbibing of coffee, and it was only fitting that he join in.

She rolled her eyes at him. "You heard me perfectly, you arse. I don't see what's so special about it. You could drink pumpkin juice and be just as well off."

"I need caffeine to function," he stated flatly. It was true — to an extent. A hot shower in the morning was sufficient enough to break the haze of sleep addling his mind, but he simply preferred both; although, Millicent didn't need to know that.

"Whatever. I'm going back to the common room." She stood and took a bite of the toast. "Coming?"

Was that Granger scuttling over to the sparsely-occupied Gryffindor table? "No, I'll catch up with you." Millicent shrugged and headed off. Maybe he could get her to tell him how she'd enchanted that coffeepot … Potter and Weasley were nowhere to be seen, so he wouldn't have to maim her sniping bodyguards just to get a word in. Before he lost his nerve, he stood and approached the table with a grimace.

"Granger." She glanced up from her inspection of what looked like an ancient tome and started. Clearly, she wasn't expecting him. "Er … Zabini," she acknowledged. He caught the title _Greek Gods and Legends_ before she moved it away.

"May I ask you a question?"

Hermione blinked. Blaise Zabini was in the majority of her classes, but he'd never spoken more than four words to her, and those four words had been, "You dropped your quill." She had Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Potions, and Transfiguration with him, and those four words had been the _only_ words she'd ever heard him say.

"Sure," she said, motioning for him to take a seat. From what she gathered through overhearing Lavender and Parvati's whisper-and-giggle conversations, he was pure-blooded and well off. It made her wonder what made him feel the need to speak to her. After all, she was Muggle-born, and Slytherins didn't politely associate with Muggle-borns if they could help it.

Blaise was sure that he looked faintly edgy when he sat down; but then, what Slytherin wouldn't, sitting at the Gryffindor table? It didn't matter that it was virtually vacant; it was still another House's meal table. "How did you break the wards round Hogwarts and charm your coffeepot to work?" It was then that he remembered it had only been a rumor. Oh, dumbfuck.

She looked taken aback for a moment, and her eyes flicked down to the cup in his hand. He'd forgotten that he'd brought it with him, but it obviously saved him from a brief explanation. "First of all, I didn't _break_ the wards. I bent them." Thank Merlin the gossip was true. Perhaps the things whispered about Snape had some truth to them … Blaise discontinued that train of thought. He'd pick it up later with Draco.

He shot her a calculating look, and she sighed. "It's true," she asserted, folding her arms. "Breaking the wards would be breaking the rules." Oh yes, he thought, and righteous Hermione Golden Granger couldn't _break_ rules. It was immoral and wrong.

"So you threaded your way through little gaps you found." He was forced to give her credit; it was a very Slytherin thing to do. It didn't mean he had to voice it aloud, though. "Get to the point, Granger."

Hermione stared at him for a moment; well, there went politeness out the window. She might as well tell him — her magic coffee-making pot was bound to get out sometime. "Place the pot as close as you can to a window and charm it four times."

Blaise looked incredulous; it was the first expression she'd seen from him since the start of their conversation; if you could call it that. "Is that it?"

Hermione glanced at her watch and picked up her book and a tiny bag stuffed with as many croissants as she could find; it was charmed. It was Saturday morning, and she was supposed to be meeting Ron and Harry in a few minutes. "That's it," she confirmed. "Now, if you'll excuse me …" Rising, she inclined her head towards him politely. "Good-bye."

Hermione strode towards the Quidditch Pitch, layers of pure, undisturbed white powder surrounding her. Two pairs of footprints led straight to the Pitch, and she was certain she knew who they belonged to. Only those two would be out here in this weather, taking turns on Harry's new Skyhawk. It didn't matter that they were all in their seventh and last year at Hogwarts. In fact, it seemed as if the more Harry and Ron grew up, the more immature they became.

"Probably Fred and George's influence," she told herself, smiling. The Weasley twins were extraordinary troublemakers with reputations to match; she never saw one without the other. It was difficult to tell them apart, but she found that the distinction lay in their voices — a faint distinction, but it was there. George's voice was faintly deeper, a little more courteous. Hermione shook her head, her smile broadening at the memory of the two.

Even though George had sounded a little more chivalrous, there had been nothing harmless about either of the twins. Flirtatious and engaging, they had gone through more girls than she could count. There had been no point in attempting to put a stop to their shenanigans; their humor was contagious. She had to admit, they were great to have around the castle, Dungbombs or no.

Then again, the only reason she was so affable towards them was probably because they'd already won her over with their smiles. She couldn't deny it; they had been quirkily attractive, appealing in the roguish sense that only pranksters could be. Having participated in a clandestine relationship with them, she knew precisely what drew girls to them like moths to flame. Ron and Harry didn't know; they would've had a fit. The twins had agreed to keep quiet for her sake.

Their relationship had been unexpected and brief, but she didn't regret it — she never would. Hermione tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her feet crunching softly through the snow as she glimpsed a lone figure racing through the sky. She squinted; the splash of ginger assured her it was Ron. On a day like this, no doubt Fred and George would've broken out their Cleansweeps to keep her friends company if they were still here.

"Hermione!" Her eyes fell to Harry, who was waving to her heartily. She grinned and covered the last few yards at a quick jog, pushing the croissant-filled bag into his hands. "I thought you might be hungry." He handed her one as he took a chunk out of another with his teeth. "You were right," he said, "thanks."

"No problem." Hermione shielded her eyes from the sun and laughed. "Ron's enjoying your broomstick, I see."

"He is," Harry agreed, polishing off his croissant and reaching for another. "How many are there?"

"I didn't count. Almost twenty, I think." She watched Ron swoop and arc through the sky, alternately plunging towards the ground and pulling back at the last minute. "Is that it? You think that'll be enough for Ron?" They laughed together; Ron had the most horrendous eating habits of anyone — or anything — she'd ever encountered. "He eats like he should be Hagrid's size," Harry remarked. Hermione couldn't say she didn't agree.

It wasn't long until Ron landed a little ways away from them; he'd clearly spotted her. "All right, Hermione?" He dismounted and froze. "Are those croissants you have, Harry? I love croissants!" Harry threw him the bag with a grin as he and Hermione shared a look. "Loves everything else that's edible, too," she whispered. "Uh-huh," Harry mumbled.

"So, Hermione," Ron said after swallowing a mouthful of croissant, "any plans for today?"

"The Heads and Prefects are supposed to be meeting with McGonagall before lunch to discuss the remaining details for the Yule Ball," she responded. "Got an idea as to who you'll be escorting?"

Ron flushed, and Harry coughed, looking everywhere but at her. "Oh, out with it now. You know I'll find out about three seconds after you've asked them." She cut Ron off when he opened his mouth. "Don't try to tell me you don't know. I posted that notice in the common room last week, and I know you've seen it."

"Er," Harry said, "I kind of …" He scratched the back of his head and mumbled, "Pansy Parkinson." Ron gaped at him. "What?" Harry shrugged, a small smile on his face. "She's the one who asked me."

"Pansy asked _you_? Are we talking about the same Pansy Parkinson here?" Ron asked in disbelief. Hermione shook her head; he obviously had trouble dealing with the changes taking place in the school. The relations between the Houses were strenuous at best, true, but in the halls hung a mutual respect that hadn't been there before the fall of Voldemort.

Just last year, Hogwarts had acted as a safe haven for those who wished not to actively partake in the war; the walls of the school had suffered, and Hagrid's old hut lay in ruins, but otherwise, everything lay intact. No student who chose to stay at Hogwarts, or there by parental request, had been harmed.

The same couldn't be said on the other side of the walls, however; many died.

Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black were two examples, and they represented significant losses to everyone who knew them. Remus Lupin had fallen in the final battle, as had Neville Longbottom and Charlie Weasley. Mad-Eye Moody was still around, although he'd been forced to get a new metal leg after a scrape with Bellatrix Lestrange, and Tonks was as clumsy as ever.

"She's not bad once you get to know her," Harry protested defensively. If Harry could pardon Pansy Parkinson from years of verbal abuse and cutting gossip, anyone could.

"What about you, Ron?" Best to change subject before they got into a rough-and-tumble fight over nothing more than male ego. Her question had the desired effect; Ron's ears turned a violent shade of red, and he began to stutter.

"I — well, I thought — she's just — she …" Finally, after more incoherent, fragmented speech, he managed to squeak, "Lavender Brown." Hermione's eyebrows shot up in astonishment, although she had suspected. The witch wasn't all bad; the important part was that she was bearable — to an extent. She didn't want to know how these anomalous relationships had developed, and she shushed Ron when he tried to explain. "You _have_ asked her, haven't you?"

"Well, she kind of … she asked me too." He was red as a tomato now and wringing his hands like they were dishrags. Hermione dimly wondered why the girls were suddenly the ones taking charge when she clapped her hands together. "That's wonderful, Ron. You too, Harry." It seemed that she happened to be the only one without a date yet.

Damn Malfoy and his obtuse ideas. Then again, the only reason she had consented was because he'd agreed — albeit reluctantly — to dress as 'a fat old geezer' on Christmas Eve, starting at breakfast. He wasn't to remove the St. Nicholas gimmick until at least eight o'clock that night, and he'd unwittingly signed a magical contract with her.

A breach of the contract would result in his attending the Yule Ball in the outfit — she smiled — with the addition of red trousers with rotating white stripes, fluffy pink reindeer antlers that sang 'Jingle Bells' and faerie wings charmed to flutter daintily. She hadn't informed Malfoy of it, of course; leave it for him to find out.

"Where are you off to?" Harry shouldered his broom as Ron brushed away particles of ice clinging to his hair. "Ron and I were going to head back to the common room." Ron nodded and grinned, "Nothing like a game of Exploding Snap after being out in the cold."

Hermione glanced at the book held against her chest. "I'm going to the library." They groaned loudly, and she huffed. So what if she spent the majority of her free time at the library instead of out and about? Books were her forte, and there was an intriguing volume situated somewhere in the Restricted section that she was itching to get her hands on. McGonagall had suggested it with an uncharacteristic wink, and that was proof enough that it was more than a 'good read'.

The trio made their way back up to the castle, their trek slowed down by spontaneous snowball fights. Hermione threatened to hex them if they so much as came near her with a snowball, yet Ron, against all good sense, pelted her in the back with two.

"I can't believe you!" Hermione whipped around, struggling to smother her smile. "Ron, you are going to be _so_ sorry —" Another snowball broke open against her shoulder. "Stop it with the dialogue," Harry yelled from behind a large grey boulder; it completely blocked him from view.

"Come on, Hermione!" She spotted Ron stooping down to gather some more snow from beside a tree as he shouted at her. "Get in the game!" Quickly setting her book down on a dry surface, Hermione scooped up some snow for herself and patted it into a sloppy snowball; Ron Weasley was not getting away unscathed.

"Don't be scared —" The snowball splattered against his face, and he blew a raspberry as he tried to get all the snow out of his mouth. She squealed and ducked behind a tree when he made to throw another one at her, only to have Harry land a good one on her backside. He looked sheepish but didn't make the mistake of standing in one spot, apologizing.

And so it went; no less than four of the impromptu snow wars took place. She'd stopped counting after the second and simply enjoyed it; the library could wait. Only when all their fingers seemed numb with frostbite did they concentrate on making it to the castle with their limbs in proper working order. "I'll catch up with you," she said as they parted at the stairwell.

Perhaps she'd be able to get some reading done now that she was alone. Hermione smiled at Madam Pince as she took her customary table nearest the shelves of tomes. The only other denizens of the library, excluding the librarian herself, were three younger Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan.

Otherwise, the library was deserted. Pleased with the silence, she set her book down, intent on getting at least a few pages read after tracking down McGonagall's recommendation. Ambling towards the latched door marked 'Restricted', she waited until Madam Pince saw her and pushed the door open. Inhaling the smell of old books and worn pages, Hermione searched the endless rows for _Animagi Transformations and How to Achieve the Them._

She rather liked this particular section of the library. It had a mysterious twist to it, the ancient texts darkly appealing in their own way. Earlier in the year, she had fortuitously come across the 'screaming book' Harry had told her of during their first year. His description had been wholly accurate; the pages _did _mold into the shape of man's face while screeching.

Bypassing a shuddering tome bound by thick chains, Hermione turned the corner and began perusing another shelf. It had to be here somewhere; she'd found the rows devoted to Transfiguration. She touched her fingers to the spine of a nondescript book and grinned in triumph, dropping down to the row below it.

The cover was brown leather, soft and worn from use. A cursory thumbing through the pages advised her to treat the volume with consideration. The pages were close thin and yellow and closer to crumbling into dust than was comfortable, and if she wasn't careful, it was bound to collapse while in her keeping. Madam Pince — nice as she was when you were quiet — was a vulture when it came straight down to it, and it was best to keep in her good graces.

Maybe she could ask Flitwick for a charm later that would keep the book from further falling apart. Hermione doubted that even Flitwick, an expert at charms and enchantments, would be able to patch _this_ up. It was too far gone.

She gently laid the book down on the table in front of the persnickety librarian, smiling hesitantly. It was entirely possible that Pince wouldn't let her take the book out of the library. The woman had allowed her to take other restricted books out on several occasions, but none had been in such a poor state of repair.

'Poor state of repair' had to be the understatement of the century. If the book were alive, it'd be looking death in the face right about now.

"Acquire an abrupt interest in Transfiguration, did you, Miss Granger?" Madam Pince tapped her wand against the leather spine of the book twice before pushing it forward. "A mine of information," she said, nodding her approval, "but it is rather old. Treat it delicately, lest it fall to pieces on you." She smiled. "I charmed it just in case, so unless you're rough, it should hold."

"Thank you." Relieved, Hermione made her way back to her table. She deposited the prehistoric book off to the side a bit and pulled _Greek_ _Gods and Legends_ towards her. For as long as she could remember, she'd been fascinated by the Greeks. Their philosophy was absorbing, and the architecture was beautiful.

She located her bookmark and turned to the page titled 'Apollo' and began to read.

-

Blaise lay supine atop his bed with his head nestled in his pillow. Having nothing more productive to do, he contemplated the possible truth of the rumors revolving around Snape. Maybe he could even start a few.

Koala bears were cute in a fuzzy grey way if you discounted those wicked claws. Seemingly harmless, yet exceptionally deadly. He could see why Snape would fancy them.

But pink flamingo lawn ornaments … how did _that_ get around?

It was a shame Malfoy had disappeared. No doubt he would've found fabricating Snape's life story a more than favorable pastime.

It had to be believable, of course; but then again, almost _anything_ was believable these days. It probably had something to do with the naivety and boredom of the students. They needed a reprieve from the grueling preparations for NEWTs, and if the seventh-years repeated it, the younger generations made it religion.

Therefore, Blaise set to fabricating.

… Snape twirled around his private office in a leopard-print tutu with soft techno playing in the background? Ghastly.

… Snape singing along to an atrocious Muggle boy band while feather dusting his office in a frilly apron? Grisly.

Malfoy would surely find the hearsay amusing, and if Pansy caught a snatch of it … Snape could say good-bye to his dignified reputation, poor man. All of Hogwarts would know by the end of the day. It was amazing how gossip spread like wildfire when spoken by Pansy.

Blaise closed his eyes. Sleep was always welcome, since he suffered from mild insomnia. It was most likely the coffee, but the substance was too precious to give up. He made a note to try and charm his own coffee-maker when he woke up. Hopefully, Granger's instructions were successful.

Speaking of Granger …

She was standing in front of him, her eyes hooded and dark. Her gaze was darker than it should've been, and she was staring at him like she wanted nothing more than to strip him down and — she looked like she wanted to _eat_ him. How did Granger get past the portrait hole? And what the hell was she doing in his dorm?

His eyes dropped down, and he choked on air. Granger wasn't wearing … she wasn't wearing a goddamn _thing_, and there was no way know-it-all, virtuous, saintly Granger looked like _that_ under her robes. Unfeasible, impossible, Granger was a stick; asexual, bookworm Granger, uninterested in either sex, one-third human, two-thirds dictionary.

She kissed him hard, her tongue filling his mouth as she climbed on top of him, blanketing his body in warmth. It stopped his sprawling mind, that was for sure.

Soft. Supple. Unbelievably appealing.

Granger gripped his shirt and yanked it off, buttons flying in every direction as her mouth latched hotly onto his neck.

"What the bloody fuck?"

He shot straight up, wide-eyed and sweating liberally. Dormitory — four-poster — the room was empty. He was alone, no Granger in sight. Blaise shook his head, pushing slightly damp curls out of his obscenely blue eyes. Merlin, he was _hard_. A glance at the clock ticking away on his nightstand told him he had an hour until lunchtime; he'd slept for almost three hours.

He'd dreamt. "Oh, fucking hell." He'd dreamt about _Granger_, and a _more_ than feminine, naked, _sexy_ Granger at that. And his body had reacted. It had to be the monotony of Hogwarts, or maybe he was suffering from the cold. Was there such a thing as 'frost stroke' as opposed to heatstroke? Perhaps Dobby had slipped something into his coffee … Millicent even.

There was no way he'd dreamt of Granger on his own accord. It was absurd. She was Gryffindor's Golden Princess, incapable of being 'sexy'. He couldn't get excited over her because — well — she was _Granger_.

Oh, damn it all.

"I've lost my bloody mind."


	2. Bathe Me

**Chapter II:** Bathe Me. 

The sky hung overhead like a pearly grey backdrop, cloudless and windswept. Hermione shivered under her cloak; she was still clad in her pyjamas, but nobody had to know that. Ginny had woken her up less than five minutes ago, and all she'd had time to do was throw on a warm cloak and dash down the stairs. She stood outside, a short ways away from a Thestral-drawn carriage. They'd been visible to her for a while now.

"Sure you don't want to come with us, Hermione?" Ron stared at her pleadingly, and Harry was mimicking the expression. She shook her head, trying to sound exasperated while smiling. "I already told you, Ron. Even if you are coming back two days before the Ball, I have to stay and help." It was endearing to know that they wanted her along for the journey, even if she couldn't go.

Both Harry and Ron were going on a brief trip to the Burrow for one half of their Christmas break, and they'd begged and beseeched her to accompany them. The only thing that kept her from agreeing was the fact that there were still kinks to work out for the Yule Ball, and the Great Hall was 'still unfit for a mule', as Malfoy put it.

"Ginny —" The redhead cut Harry off, blowing out a partially annoyed breath. "You know I'm staying. It's not every year that the Yule Ball is hosted outside."

"But you'll still be back for it," Ron argued. "Plus, Mum really wants you to come." Ginny hesitated. "I know, Ron … it's just I'd rather stay here for once," she said earnestly. "Tell Mum I love her." Ron smiled faintly. "Alright then. See you in a bit!" With a wave, he and Harry turned and hopped into an empty carriage.

The majority of the seventh-years had chosen to stay and attend; it was, after all, their last year at Hogwarts, and many seemed to want to graduate with a pocketful of memories. From what she'd heard, a number of the younger years were staying also.

"Say hi to your family for me!" she called after the carriages, and a hand flew out a window, giving her a thumbs-up. As the rolling stagecoaches progressed out of sight, she looked to Ginny and watched as she shuddered under her cloak. "Didn't get a chance to dress?" The girl shook her head in response. Hermione grinned. "Me neither. Come on," she said, "let's get a quick shower. Then we can go down to breakfast."

As they made their way up the moving stairwell, the two parted ways. Hermione's room was a floor above the Ginny's. She heard Ginny address the Fat Lady with "C'est stylus." Why Gryffindor's password happened to be French was beyond her, especially since the phrase translated into 'it is a pencil'. She felt a pang of sadness as Ginny disappeared into the portrait hole with a flick of flaming hair. Her schedule had been so hectic, what with juggling classes and planning the Ball, she'd had nary a chance to visit her old common room in ages.

Next time, she promised herself. The Gryffindor common room was where the people she'd spent the last seven years with congregated. In simply terms, it was where she felt the most at home. Having become a Head, she'd been given her own personal quarters that lay adjoined to a private common room. The room itself was adorned with red and silver and green and gold — a perfectly blended mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin. The door leading to Malfoy's accommodations was on the adjacent wall, directly across from hers.

The common room had a fireplace that was kept going all night long — she'd found out while performing an all-nighter, desperately trying to finish an enthralling Romance she'd found in the Muggle fiction section. Set off on two separate sides, facing each other, were two posh chairs. One was colored maroon with bright silver swirls, the other a deep shade of green with dazzling golden stars. Between them, though situated back a little, lay a dark cherry wood table, stamped with curling vines and blooming roses.

A whole wall was lined with bookshelves, the subjects of each volume equally as diverse as the next. She'd been pleasantly surprised — 'stunned' was more accurate — when Malfoy had expressed an interest in reading. It turned out he was a closet booklover, and he threatened to charm all of her undergarments to dance over the lake if she ever spoke of it.

Malfoy was always an odd one.

-

Blaise sat alone at breakfast, brooding over his third cup of rich, creamy coffee. It was Sunday, and his bizarre dream about Granger had been forcefully pushed into the darkest recesses of his mind. Now that Millicent was gone, he was mentally going through a list of people who could decently uphold their side of an intelligent conversation. So far, the only person that came close was Malfoy, and he'd had to discard the 'intelligent'.

His fingers thrummed rhythmically against the polished wood table. Though he vaguely hoped the professors had assigned an outrageous amount of homework that would keep him busy, he was _praying_ that Vector kept the Arithmancy to a bare minimum. The subject was kicking his _ass_.

Damn Granger and her perfect marks.

"Zabini." Malfoy dropped into the vacant seat across from him, pale blonde fringe falling neatly into his eyes. "What's this about Snape in a leotard?"

He must have looked confused because Malfoy said, "You talk in your sleep."

Oh. That explained a few things. "Rumors," he replied, gazing impassively over the rim of his coffee cup. Malfoy gave him a strange look, and he shrugged. "Just heard them around. You never know, some of it could be true."

"Snape dusting his office in a frilly apron?"

A couple of fourth-year girls passed by and gasped. They exchanged looks and hurried on, muffled giggles trailing in their wake. Blaise smirked and hid it by pressing his cup against his lips. Pansy would no doubt find out soon.

"What are you doing today?"

He looked up, lowering his cup as he arched an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I felt like flying a bit," Malfoy said, slanting a look towards Crabbe and Goyle who were further down the table, stuffing muffins and cakes into their mouths with meaty fists, "and no broomstick could hold up those two bumbling fools."

It was true; more likely than not, the broom would break in half when they tried to kick off the ground. In addition to that, he hadn't flown in a while, his studies having kept him inside the castle for months. Blaise glanced at the enchanted ceiling. No sign of rain or cloud. It was cold, but the offer was tempting.

"… I'll grab my broom."

-

"Ginny, no!"

"It's simple, Hermione!"

The curly-haired witch stood stock still with her hands on her hips, eyeing the redhead like a petulant child as she circled high above on a broom. Okay, so maybe it wasn't so high … ten feet at most. But Hermione was averse to flying and heights in general, and broomsticks hated her.

The only reason a broom would allow her to mount it would be so it could juggle her up to the clouds and then swing her loose. Then, she would plummet down to the ground and smash every single bone in her miserable little body and probably knock her teeth loose too.

"We just had breakfast," she reasoned, "I'll get airsick and hurl."

Ginny decidedly ignored feeble excuse. "It's just a broom. Get on!"

"Easy for you to say," she huffed, "you're Gryffindor's best bloody Chaser."

"Come on, Hermione. You can even get on mine while I fly."

Who in their right mind would put TWO people on a broom? Oh, it would be a magnificent sight. Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger, acrobatics extraordinaire, tumbling onto Hogwarts's Quidditch Pitch from the heavens and snapping their necks. If they both died, then who would call for help?

"No."

Ginny stilled her broom in front of the witch and looked hurt. "You don't trust me enough, Hermione?"

Oh, bloody guilt trips. It was unfortunate that Ginny could emulate her mother so well.

"Ginny, you know I hate flying."

"But once you get the hang of it, you'll love it," she insisted. "Just try, Hermione. I promise I'll catch you if you fall."

Hermione looked uncertainly at her broom. She might as well … she'd been in the hospital wing enough to know it wasn't as daunting a place as most students proclaimed, and Pomfrey was nice enough when she wasn't shoving potion after potion down your sorry, aching throat.

Carefully, she mounted the school broom. Once she was straddling it securely, she glanced at Ginny. _Notgonnafallnotgonnafallnotgonnafall …_

"Kick off the ground."

_Easy for you to say_, she grimaced. Her knuckles were almost white with the force she was exerting by simply holding on. Hermione kicked off and hovered lopsidedly, wobbling in midair. She tightened her grip, which seemed to make the broom jiggle even more. It _had_ to be rickety — or maybe she just wasn't made to fly.

"Er, just nudge it forward a little, Hermione." Ginny sounded slightly edgy. She had a reason to be. "Not too hard — Hermione!"

She zoomed forward, the broom bobbing under her. So she'd 'nudged it' a little too hard. Merlin's beard, she was going to die. Maybe the broom didn't like her mental comment about it being rickety. _I'mgonnafallI'mgonnafallI'mgonnafallOHMYGOD!_ The front of her broom dug firmly into the grass, and she squeaked, flipping and rolling until she came to a stop flat on her back.

"Hermione! Are you alright? Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry." Ginny was running towards her, and she would've pushed herself up if her arms didn't feel like leaden weights. She'd be sore tomorrow in more places than one. _I hate flying. I will never touch another broom as long as I live. Amen._

Laughter floated to her ears, and she heard a well-known voice drawl, "Pity, Granger. Last year at Hogwarts and you _still_ can't fly properly." When the feeling finally came back to her limbs, she stood, brushing herself off and giving the broom she'd been on an irked look. "It's almost as shameful as your inability to read," she taunted, not bothering to hide her smile as Malfoy blanched. _Got you by the balls, don't I?_ In truth, she didn't necessarily think that his love for books would've accumulated anything more than shock from his peers. Malfoy, however, seemed to have a different opinion on the matter.

"Whatever," he muttered, waving it off. "You finished here? We," he jerked his head to his left, "actually want to get some _flying_ done." Curious, Hermione peered over his shoulder, which was a task in itself. Malfoy wasn't exactly the tallest person, but he was pretty damn tall compared to her petite frame. In the end, she settled for tilting her head to the side and looking beside his shoulder.

Zabini was strolling towards them, broomstick in hand. He seemed to be scowling at something or the other as he tossed his head, swinging disheveled curls out of his sharp blue eyes. Ginny blew out her breath in an annoyed fashion and rolled her eyes. "You're not the only one who wants to fly, Malfoy."

It was fortunate that they were on good terms overall, or Malfoy would've responded viciously.

Blaise glanced up and froze. Why in the bloody fuck was Granger out on the Quidditch Pitch? It was common knowledge that she couldn't fly a broom to save a kitten from a tree branch. Snatches of 'the dream' bombarded him, and he shook them away. Bloody fucking fuck.

"Zabini," she nodded. _Fuck, damn it._

"Granger," he said tersely.

"Oh, so you know each other." Malfoy grinned. "Better idea, Granger. Why don't you and Weasel join us? All three of us can teach you how to not fall off your broom."

He was going to _murder_ Malfoy. Granger seemed to be in the midst of assessing him, which wasn't helping his case. "I didn't know you flew," she commented. Blaise inclined his head. Why couldn't she just bloody leave? "I don't often."

"Pick up the pace and mount, Granger. Like I said, we'll teach you not to fall off." Malfoy was practically bouncing with glee, and his expression was enough to make any sane, logical person wary. Luckily for Blaise, Hermione Granger was, if nothing else, perfectly logical and sane — for the time being.

She picked up her broom in a manner that suggested it would bite if handled wrongly and kept it a certain distance away from her body. "Thanks, but no thanks, Malfoy. I'd rather eat slugs." With a saccharine smile, she beckoned to the Weasley girl and trod off.

"Damn." Malfoy sounded almost wistful. "I really wanted to see her fall off the broom again."

_Thank the merciful gods._ Granger was gone.

"Stop being a prat and let's fly," he said, mounting his broom and kicking off the ground in a fluid motion. Merlin, it felt good to be in the air and away from Granger.

-

"You know, Zabini doesn't look half-bad," Ginny remarked casually. Hermione thrust her broomstick into the broom cupboard with a strained air, not really listening. _Never again will I attempt to fly. _

"Yeah, I guess," she muttered, forcing herself not to slam the door. _Hah! In your face, bloody broom. I'm still alive, and you're back in your ruddy little closet._

"Tall, dark and handsome," Ginny prodded knowingly, "just like in those Muggle fictions you read."

Where was she going with this? "I suppose," Hermione said offhandedly. Who were they talking about again? Ginny was looking at her oddly now. Before she could ask if there was something on her face, Ginny confided, "I think he fancies you."

"Pardon? Who fancies me?" The only person who'd ever shown any interest in her had been Ron, and their attempt at romance had ended two years prior. It had felt as if she was dating her brother, and that was simply awkward. _Who_ were they talking about again?

"Forget it," Ginny huffed melodramatically, "it's not my fault if you don't notice a beautiful Slytherin who seems to get rather flustered when he sees you."

"I don't think Malfoy's interested in me, Gin. Trust me on this."

"Who said anything about Malfoy? He's a prick." Hermione shot her a look. "Okay," Ginny conceded, "he's a downright funny prick, but he's still a prick. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Great. Anyway, I was referring to that Zabini. Is he Malfoy's best mate or something? I don't see them together in the halls."

Come to think of it, she didn't either. "Malfoy doesn't seem the type Zabini would put up with," she commented dryly. From what she'd observed, Zabini remained silent unless spoken to, and he seemed diligent in his work ethics. His personality clashed so fiercely with Malfoy's that she was amazed the two could stand the other.

"He has great eyes."

"Malfoy?"

"Zabini!"

"Oh. Right."

"Cripes, Hermione. If I didn't know better, I'd think you have a thing for Malfoy." Ginny looked momentarily worried. Then, she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "You don't, do you? Of course, if you do, I completely understand. You can disregard every nasty thing I've ever said about him, even if it was true —"

"Don't worry, Ginny. Malfoy _is_ a prick."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Does that mean you're not in love with him?"

Hermione shook her head. "Gin, Malfoy's what people would call a metro sexual in my world." Ginny looked confused. "He values fashion more than sports and worries about how he looks, but he's not homosexual."

"So … Malfoy's straight, but he basically acts like he's gay?"

"Close enough." She left Ginny at the Fat Lady's portrait with, "I'm going to take a nap and have blissful dreams about never flying again." The redhead snorted.

She was, in fact, a little tired from her poor attempt at flying. It felt as if she'd pulled multiple things in her back, her limbs were throbbing with a dull ache and her fingers were virtually petrified from having gripped the broom so severely.

"'Emerald Earwigs,'" she muttered, grimacing at the strangeness of the password. Once in her room, she locked the door with a lackadaisical 'Colloportus' and fell facedown onto her bed. She had a while until Ginny came looking for her to drag her down to lunch.

What was that rubbish she was spouting about Zabini being tall, dark and handsome? Well, she supposed he _was_, but still. He was exactly the same height as Malfoy, yet the two couldn't be any more divergent. Zabini had the darkest hair she'd ever seen, always faintly tousled in a sophisticated sort of way, which fell markedly into his eyes. He was always jerking his head and tossing his bangs to the side or running a long-fingered, pianist hand through them. Did he play the piano? She'd have to ask him.

He had _spectacular_ eyes. They were a fierce blue that seemed to fluctuate with his moods. Why she'd taken the time to notice his eye-color, she wasn't sure.

With a fitful sigh, she rolled onto her back and gasped, staring wide-eyed at her canopy. Why was Zabini — she flushed a bright red as her heart began to speed. Finding she couldn't get a word out, let alone move, she resigned herself to watching the slideshow of movement above her.

_Why_ was she allowing herself to watch Zabini take a bath? It was _wrong_ and _immoral_ and … did he really look like that? She stared as he swam lengths in the Prefect's bathroom, his rather — healthy-looking — backside flashing every now and then in the soapy water.

_Oh Merlin, what am I doing?_ She wanted to drown herself … preferably in the same tub as him — _No,_ she scolded herself, _you will not think of_ _taking a nice, hot, steamy bath with Zabini. You will not wonder what it would be like for him to … bathe you …_

She was losing the internal battle of wills, and she knew it.

_Bloody hell, he's got an arse._


	3. Streamers

  
**Chapter III:** Streamers. 

**Note:** Last chapter, Hermione was dreaming. And eliegirl, I'm surprised you caught that little tidbit; you're the first. All will be revealed in due time. Onto the story! 

"Granger, please."

Hermione flicked an inquiring glance in Malfoy's direction. What was he on about this time? They were halfway through putting up decorations in the Great Hall, and in her opinion, the place looked lovely. It was a shame they wouldn't be having the Yule Ball inside like the past few years. Upon Draco's request (and after much groveling), McGonagall was ready to erect a sort of translucent tent over the Quidditch Pitch when the time came to keep out snow and every other kind of precipitation. Transportation _to_ the Pitch was left up to the students.

"Those baubles you've just conjured," he critiqued, brandishing his wand. The batch of burgundy and gold ornaments flashed a variety of colors: reds and blues and greens, gold and silver. "I know you're a Gryffindor at heart, but it's 'Happy Christmas', not 'Happy House-Day'." She hated to admit it, but the tree _did _look better with more color.

"Don't tell me you're already done," she sniped. Malfoy had been busy embellishing his own tree the last time she'd checked. Surely he wasn't finished already? "Then I won't tell you," he quipped. With a tap of his wand, the tree was swathed in dazzling lights. Numerous pixies blinked an array of hues as they zoomed through the prickly branches.

"You can summon pixies?"

Malfoy gave her a shrewd glance. "I can do other things, too." She snorted when he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Malfoy looked affronted. "I'll have you know that I'm bloody terrific in bed," he stated, lower lip sticking out in an oddly endearing pout. It made him look like a grouchy six-year old.

"I'm sure you are," she retorted in singsong. He rolled his eyes and turned his back on her, adjusting a wayward bauble. "Orchideous," she muttered, beaming as a purple orchid bloomed on the tip of her wand. "Engorgio." It grew. "Oh, Malfoy …"

"What," he huffed, facing her. With a swift placement and sticking charm, the orchid plunked itself onto his temple. Hermione was still beaming. "I just thought you might want a flower, to brighten your day and all," she rationalized, promptly ducking behind another Christmas tree in need of decorations when he raised his wand menacingly.

"Draco, aren't you done with that tree yet?" Pansy Parkinson stormed up to him and, taking hold of his elbow, jerked him to an enormous tree on the other side of the Hall. "Get that gruesome flower out of your hair! What are you, six?" _Thank you, Parkinson; my thoughts exactly. _As he was being dragged away, Malfoy tossed her a glare that ensured speedy retribution. _And I owe you a large favor._

-

Blaise lazed about his common room, draped over the couch like a breathing blanket. His Ancient Runes book was sprawled out on the floor in the company of his Arithmancy book, some blank parchment and a fistful of quills. The former was his most favorite subject, and he'd been going over a few Babylonian runes when he'd decided to study some Arithmancy.

_Big mistake,_ he thought, throwing a disgusted look at the open volume on the floor. The subject was_ still_ flooring him, even after all the work he put into revising and cramming. "There's an alternative to bad grades," Vector had pointed out at the end of class on Friday. "Get yourself a tutor."

And he would've, if the tutor were a teacher. But as it was, Vector had proposed Granger — _Granger_ — of all people, and after that perplexing dream …

He wasn't sure he could face her. In addition to that, his Slytherin pride barred him from requesting help from a non-Slytherin. As fate would have it, the only Slytherin in NEWT-leveled Arithmancy was Theodore Nott, and he was barely passing the class himself.

It was a rough decision. Ask Granger to tutor him, or risk failing his NEWTs? It basically came down to him having to choose between pride and academics, and he knew which he would end up picking.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, scooping up his wand. After a few waves, the floor was empty and his bag was bulging. He might as well find her now. Either that or he could stroll up to his room and throttle himself with his sheets while thinking up _more_ rumors for Snape.

On second thought, Snape could wait. With that thought, Blaise stalked out the portrait hole, grumpily pushing his hair out of his eyes. _I'll hex Vector later for forcing me into this. _He wouldn't have even considered it if the man hadn't mentioned it.

Granger.

The one person he truly wanted to avoid. He would've preferred Malfoy, and that was saying a lot. Squaring his shoulders, he made for the Great Hall. Malfoy had made some sort of perverse declaration earlier about his fascination with 'beautifying' Christmas trees and needing to 'deck the Hall'. It was rather disconcerting to behold a prancing Malfoy.

_Maybe he's gay._

He'd have to pay more attention to the boy. _Gay Malfoy … erk._ Granger would be the slightest of his problems, he thought sardonically, perusing the Great Hall for a bushy head of brown. With a violent shake of his head that sent dark curls flying in every which direction, he mulled over something Millicent had said in the middle of their sixth year.

Maybe he _did_ think a little too much for it to be healthy, but that was the way he was. If he didn't have some train of thought whizzing round in his head, then something was terribly wrong. The quirk was that he had to be doing something else to be able to think — sharpening his quills, putting his notes in order and scratching the wood polish off desks were a few examples.

If he were just slumped in a chair and staring at a wall, his mind would go blank. It was really quite peculiar.

Just as he was about to give up in his search for Granger, he heard her.

"Zabini?" Spinning around, he wasn't prepared for the lack of personal space and stumbled back a few steps before catching himself. Her mouth twitched, but it was such a negligible movement that he could've been imagining it. Under the circumstances, he probably wasn't. "What are you doing here? Only Prefects are allowed in the Great Hall at the moment."

Apparently, Malfoy found that miniscule detail inconsequential and chose not to divulge it — or had he?

"Yeah, well." What was he supposed to say? 'Granger, tutor me.' That would go over well. He could already hear her 'why's' and 'what for's' and 'why in the bloody hell are you asking me's'. Perhaps politeness would help his miserable case. Blaise readied himself like a man about to plunge.

"May I …" Polite. Be polite. "May I ask a favor?"

If Granger's eyebrows could shoot up any higher, he'd eat Goyle's shoes. If _that_ sounded rushed, his next words were probably indistinguishable from Parvati Patil's prattling. "I'm" — damn it all — "struggling with Arithmancy."

Okay, he'd said it. Now, for the most important part … he could almost hear her voice stating, "And?"

"And … er, well, Vector recommended a tutor." Why couldn't he just say it? Oh, cripes, her eyebrows _could_ go even higher. _Thank Merlin I didn't really make that bet._

"Who did he suggest?" She looked curious and innocently so, yet he could tell she was playing with him. Granger had that mischievous look in her eyes that all girls got. It meant trial and tribulation for any and every guy who happens to be the unlucky bloke to cross her path, and he was in Granger's. _Oh, bloody fuck._

He hated Granger.

After a few seconds of silent contemplation — in which Blaise internally sulked and pouted like a child — he ultimately managed to blurt that one pronounce that he, at present, loathed.

"You're asking me to tutor you?"

"Er, right."

Now, she looked skeptical and vaguely suspicious. "I'm a Gryffindor."

"Truly? That little tidbit seems to have escaped me."

She gave him scathing look, and he just knew that he was screwed. If Granger didn't help him, and Vector didn't have the time, he would no doubt have to drop the class.

"What's in it for me?"

"What's in it for you?" he repeated distantly. He hadn't thought of that, which wasn't like him. Usually, he thought everything out beforehand, and he always had a quick response. Now, he was forced to consider. What could he give her that she didn't already have? Her marks were higher than his in every class they had together, so he doubted he could help her academics-wise.

"I'll teach you Italian." It was his native tongue, so it wouldn't be hard.

"Is that all?" At least she looked dimly interested.

She seemed to be deliberating her options when he added, "And French with a bit of Latin on the side, if you want. What do you say?"

_That_ got her attention. "You know Italian, French _and_ Latin?"

"_Je ne sais pas_," he said with a half-smirk. Granger cocked her head to the side and regarded him strangely. "You're offering me three languages in exchange for Arithmancy help."

"Yes."

The intensity of her gaze was starting to unnerve him when she abruptly smiled. "Alright then."

Thank Merlin he wasn't reduced to groveling. "Good."

"When do you want to start?" That was a good question. He hadn't thought of that either.

"Are you free Wednesday night at … half past seven?" At her nod, he said, "Half past seven every Wednesday, meet me in the library."

"Alright."

"Okay."

She stared up at him for a moment. Then, she tilted her head towards the large oak doors with a small grin. "You're still not supposed to be in here."

"Right," he said, feeling his cheeks heat up a little as he turned and left. Well, it went better than he'd originally expected. Blaise found himself rather eager for Wednesday to arrive. What would it be like to be stuck in a room with Saint Granger for a long period of time? _Nothing_, he instructed himself. _Nothing will happen because it's Granger we're talking about._

He probably had more of a chance in getting ripped apart and eaten by the Giant Squid than in getting in a compromising position with the bushy-haired wonder. She wasn't attracted to him in any way, unlike the girls who practically threw themselves at his feet and outright pleaded to be shagged. But then, if he didn't appeal to her in the least, why had she stood so close just moments prior?

In fact, _he_ had been the one to stagger back. She had merely stood her place with that satisfied little smile — wait. Satisfied?

Blaise halted in the middle of the hall, much to the aggravation of a group of fifth-years. Granger had looked _satisfied_ when he'd stumbled back. Had she been … challenging him?

No.

Granger wouldn't purposely offer a challenge, to a Slytherin no less. They scarcely knew each other.

Would she?

_Looks like I'll have to find out._

Blaise wasn't aware of the smirk that graced his full lips as he began his trek back to his common room. The fact that she'd asked how his proposition would benefit her was farcically Slytherin-like. Maybe bossy, self-righteous Granger wasn't so bad after all.

-

"Hermione! OI, HERMIONE!"

She spun around to see Ron approaching her at a run, waving his arms frenetically as he crossed the length of the Great Hall. Ron never did learn what 'tact' was, or the art of subtlety. He was pink in the face when he reached her and doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

"What was," he gasped out in between colossal gulps of air, "that about?"

"What was what about?" Hermione furrowed her brow. "What are you talking about, Ron?"

The redhead in turn pointed towards the door leading out of the Hall and said, "Zabini! Why'd you go up to him like that?"

She reddened slightly but said, "He wasn't supposed to be in here. I just went over there to tell him."

"Took you right quick, didn't it." Ron's brows were raised in disbelief. "Really, what were you two talking about? He was looking right flustered by time you finally told him to get out of here."

"We weren't talking about anything, Ron!" She didn't know why she was keeping the truth from Ron, or why she was being so defensive. It probably had something to do with him not being able to handle news well, or maybe she just felt like being secretive. Either way, she insisted that her brief conversation with Zabini pertained to nothing in particular.

Ron was still glancing at her doubtfully when Ginny stomped up and yanked him away. _Second time that's occurred today._ While Ron had his back turned, however, the younger Weasley shot Hermione a wink over her shoulder.

She blinked, unsure of what it was for until Ginny mouthed, "You and Zabini," and gave her another wink. Flushing, she shook her head in exasperation and turned to resume in levitating large and colorful self-twirling strips of fabric to the ceiling.

Her and Zabini? Please. It was absurd.

Zabini was one of the most sought-after bachelors of Hogwarts, even she knew that. And, if she came clean with herself, he was drop-dead _gorgeous._ He wouldn't be interested in her when he had a whole fan club of pretty girls screaming 'Shag Me!' on his coattail.

If she'd had a 'type', he definitely wouldn't be it. Pretty-faced playboy? Not in a million years. Then again … perhaps she did have a 'type'? She did seem to go for the Quidditch players, although she didn't necessarily know why. Viktor had been a Seeker, and now Ron had become Keeper. Harry was a Seeker also, and she'd crushed on him for longer than she cared to remember. Oliver Wood had always been rather attractive, what with his Irish brogue and all, and he'd played Keeper. Fred and George had been Beaters …

_I guess I do have a thing for Quidditch players,_ she realized. _It's probably the athletic-toned-body thing, coupled with the admiration of them actually having the capacity to fly a broom that well._

But Zabini wasn't a Quidditch player, although he did fit the description of a Seeker; tall and lithe, lightly muscled and able to fly. And he was able to fly, wasn't he? She'd noticed when she and Ginny had been leaving the Pitch.

Still, though. He didn't _play _Quidditch, so she _couldn't_ be interested.

Could she?

"Hermione!" Ernie Macmillan was looking positively petrified as Malfoy attempted to 'doll up' one of the self-twirling streamers. She watched in morbid fascination as it gained speed until another terrified cry from Ernie spurred her into action. "Malfoy, stop charming the streamer!"

"I'm making it twirl, Granger! This place is bloody dismal!"

She was slightly surprised that he knew what 'dismal' meant, but she kept to the task at hand: keeping Malfoy from causing chaos and destruction. "They're self-twirling, you git! And it looks exquisite. Now stop it before —"

A loud explosion sounded throughout the entire room, and she was met with utter silence as all eyes turned on Malfoy. Hermione slapped a hand over her eyes and finished muttering, "Before it blows." A glance in Malfoy's direction brought a smile to her face, however; his hair was standing on end, his whole upper body was coated in soot and ash and he had the most priceless, Un-Malfoy-like expression on his grimy face.

_Serves him right, the prat._


End file.
